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This poem was passed on to a submarine veteran, Kenn McDermott (RM 63-68 G) of the USS John
C. Calhoun (SSBN 630). He received this email from another shipmate on one of his old smoke boats, USS Entemedor (SS-340)
as they were preparing for a reunion. He thought the poem expressed just the right sentiment. The poem has universal
relevance for those who serve at sea; submarine, air, or surface!
Forty Years Gone
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by Mike Hemming Thirty, forty or fifty, the number doesn’t
matter. its just a measure of the time that has passed. It’s the faces and names of the shipmates that matter. Faces
and names, names and faces, are not always matched up. Shipmates remembered even if it’s only bits and pieces. We remember
in snippets of things long gone, until we sometimes ask in our own minds did that happen or was it a dream or a story passed
on? We would never say that out loud, for around our old buddies we always claim to remember all the good times and sometimes
the bad. They were good men that came from all over for many reasons
and sailed together for a time. A time of testing and training, for men would pass on things to you that they themselves had
learned. For you were expected to pass that knowledge on to those who came after you. It was a struggle to learn it all, sometimes.
But you were learning lessons taught by the school of hard knocks. A school that lists the names of some 4,000 men who don’t
want you to repeat mistakes already made. There were faces of men
now gone who once fought a hot war, who told you of traditions to honor those who did not return. Men that had seen too much
to even tell it all. They were fighting a hard enemy that rarely gave quarter and so none was given back. Faces of men that sailed through the years of a long cold war to hold our enemies at bay. Sacrificing
years, marriages, limbs and even their lives at times to do what they thought was right. Years of stories untold even today
watching the Bear and preparing for a war. Serving on boats built to fight a hot war and then holding the line through a cold
war. Until the new boats that were built for the next hot war, a war that fortunately never came. And faces and names of those that sailed with you and now are gone these many years. We all say, "I
wish I could see him one more time, but I don’t know where he is." He was an old salt that guarded your back while ashore. Or a young kid that became a man when he stood beside you
and fought fire or flooding without backing down. You didn’t say ''thanks' that day, but now you wish you had. They
are all there in the time that has flown away from us. We have all
moved on now for better or worse. Some of them did more and some we never called upon to do more again. They returned home
and went on with their lives. Names of men tested and found to be shipmates, an honor which can never be taken away. Faces
with names that we shouldn’t have lost as we traveled down the road. A road that led us away from what we did then as
it always has to. But we shouldn’t have lost all the faces and the names for all time. The faces and names of these
special men that wanted to do something few can do. They did it for reasons unknown to themselves, sometimes much less to
others that can never understand the pride in the accomplishment of what they did. For when the paths we travel meet again, we will all reconnect faces and names again. But wouldn’t it be nice
to sit with that lost shipmate forty years gone and remember that life just one more time, right now? 
An Ode To Sailors
- Everywhere I
liked standing on the bridge wing at sunrise with salt spray in my face and clean ocean winds whipping in from the four quarters
of the globe. I liked the sounds of the Navy - the piercing trill of the boatswain's pipe, the syncopated
clangor of the ship's bell on the quarterdeck, harsh, and the strong language and laughter of sailors at work.
I liked Navy vessels -- plodding fleet auxiliaries and amphibs, sleek submarines and steady solid aircraft carriers. I liked
the proud names of Navy ships: Midway, Lexington, Saratoga,
Coral Sea, Antietam, Valley Forge - memorials of great battles won and tribulations
overcome.
I liked the lean angular names
of Navy "tin-cans" and escorts, mementos of heroes who went before us. And the cruisers - - San Jose, San Diego, Los Angeles, St. Paul, Chicago, Oklahoma City, named for our cities.
I
liked the tempo of a Navy band. I liked liberty call and the spicy scent of a foreign port. I even liked the never-ending
paperwork and all hands working parties as my ship filled herself with the multitude of supplies, both mundane and to cut
ties to the land and carry out her mission, anywhere on the globe where there was water to float her.
I
liked Sailors, Officers, Chiefs, & Enlisted Men from all parts of the land, farms of the Midwest, small towns of New England, from the big cities, the mountains and the prairies,
from all walks of life. I trusted and depended on them as they trusted and depended on me -- for professional competence,
for comradeship, for strength and courage. In a word, they were "shipmates"; then and forever.
I
liked the surge of adventure in my heart, when the word was passed: ''Now Hear This'' "Now station the special sea and
anchor detail - all hands to quarters for leaving port," and I liked the infectious thrill of sighting home again, with
the waving hands of welcome from family and friends waiting pier side. The work was hard and dangerous; the going rough at times; the parting from loved ones painful, but the companionship
of robust Navy laughter, the "all for one and one for all" philosophy of the sea was ever-present.
I liked the fierce and dangerous activity on the flight deck of aircraft carriers,
earlier named for battles won but sadly now named for politicians. Enterprise, Independence, Boxer, Princeton and oh so many more, some lost in battle, and sadly many scrapped.
I liked the names of the aircraft and helicopters;
Skyraider, Intruder, Sea King, Phantom, Skyhawk, Demon, Skywarrior, Corsair, Tracker and many more that bring
to mind offensive and defensive orders of battle. I liked the excitement of an alongside replenishment as my ship slid in
alongside the oilier and the cry
of "Stand by
to receive shotlines" prefaced the hard work of rigging spanwires and fuel hoses echoed across the narrow gap of
water between the ships and welcomed the mail, movies and
fresh milk, fruit and vegetables that sometimes accompanied the fuel.
I liked the serenity of the sea after a day of hard ship's work, as flying fish flitted across
the wave tops and sunset gave way to night. I liked the feel of the Navy in darkness - the masthead and range lights, the
red and green navigation lights and stern light, the pulsating phosphorescence of radar repeaters - they cut through the dusk
and joined with the mirror of stars overhead.
And
I liked drifting off to sleep lulled by the myriad noises large and small that told me my ship was alive and well, and
that my shipmates on watch would keep me safe. I liked quiet mid-watches with the aroma of strong coffee -- the lifeblood
of the Navy permeating everywhere. And I liked hectic watches when the exacting minuet of haze-gray shapes racing at flank
speed kept all hands on a razor edge of alertness.
I liked the sudden electricity of "General
quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations," followed by the hurried clamor of running feet on ladders
and the resounding thump of watertight doors as the ship transformed herself in a few brief seconds from a peaceful
workplace to a weapon of war -- ready for anything.
And
I liked the sight of space-age equipment manned by youngsters clad in dungarees and sound-powered phones that their grandfathers
would still recognize.
I liked the traditions of the Navy and the men and now women who made them.
I liked the
proud names of Navy heroes: Halsey, Nimitz, Perry, Farragut, John Paul Jones and Burke. A sailor could find much in
the Navy: comrades-in-arms, pride in self and country, mastery of the seaman's trade. An adolescent could find
adulthood.
In years to come, when sailors are home from the sea, we still remember with fondness
and respect the ocean in all its moods - the impossible shimmering mirror calm and the storm-tossed green water surging over
the bow. And then there will come again a faint whiff of stack gas, a faint echo of engine and rudder orders, a vision
of the bright bunting of signal flags snapping at the yardarm, a refrain of hearty laughter in the wardroom and chief's
quarters and mess decks.
Gone ashore for good, we grow humble about our Navy days, when the seas were
a part of us and a new port of call was ever over the horizon.
Remembering this, we stand taller and say,
"I
was a sailor once." |
A poem worth reading, submitted by LeRoy Graf He was getting
old and paunchy And his hair was falling
fast, And
he sat around the Legion, Telling
stories of the past. Of a war that he once fought in And
the deeds that he had done, In
his exploits with his buddies; They
were heroes, every one. And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors His
tales became a joke, All
his buddies listened quietly For
they knew where of he spoke. But we'll hear his
tales no longer, For
ol' Joe has passed away, And
the world's a little poorer For
a Veteran died today. He won't be mourned by many, Just
his children and his wife. For
he lived an ordinary, Very
quiet sort of life. He held a job and raised a family, Going
quietly on his way; And
the world won't note his passing, 'Tho
a Veteran died today. When politicians leave this earth, Their
bodies lie in state, While
thousands note their passing, And
proclaim that they were great. Papers tell of their life stories From
the time that they were young, But
the passing of a Veteran Goes
unnoticed, and unsung. Is the greatest contribution To
the welfare of our land, Some
jerk who breaks his promise And
cons his fellow man? Or the ordinary fellow Who
in times of war and strife, Goes
off to serve his country And
offers up his life? The politician's stipend And
the style in which he lives, Are
often disproportionate, To
the service that he gives. While the ordinary Veteran, Who
offered up his all, Is
paid off with a medal And
perhaps a pension, small. It is not the politicians With
their compromise and ploys, Who
won for us the freedom That
our country now enjoys. Should you find yourself in danger, With
your enemies at hand, Would
you really want some cop-out, With
his ever-waffling stand? Or would you want a Veteran His home, his country, his kin, Who would fight until the end. He was just a common Veteran, And
his ranks are growing thin, But
his presence should remind us We
may need his likes again. For
when countries are in conflict, We
find the Veteran's part, Is
to clean up all the troubles That
the politicians start. If we cannot do him honor While
he's here to hear the praise, Then
at least let's give him homage At
the ending of his days. Perhaps just a simple headline In the paper that might say: "OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, A VETERAN DIED TODAY. |
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